


Praying for Absent Wings

by Tinq



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Assumed Relationship, Feelings, For Hallas, Guilt, Hurt, M/M, Multi, You pick Destiel or Sabriel, all explained at end, better known as Ashtiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:05:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1597649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinq/pseuds/Tinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean have their regrets. Heavy guilt and thoughts and mistakes perch upon their shoulders. And even though Dean's been through a lot, Dean has hope.</p><p>And even though he's been through a lot, Sam has hope enough to pray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Praying for Absent Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashtiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashtiel/gifts).



I’ve never been a fan of chick-flick moments. Not to say people are actually fans… what the hell am I doing, even talking to myself. About feelings of all things. I guess it’s just the confusion. With the mark - the Mark - on my arm and angels running around gankin’ one another and Crowley and his time-traveling son somewhere in the fine world - it’s been to much. And it’s been hard - on my, Sam, and Cas. Probably Cas the most, but he’s leading a cult of angels - what isn’t hard about that?

No, I don’t wanna talk about Cas. Not now. Not for a while, not till I’ve fully recovered from his lies. No, the thing that’s been weighing me down more than anything is Sam. Which sounds… well, just sounds plain mean. I love my little brother, even if he’s a gigantic-ass know-it-all that’s made so many mistakes. Not as many as me, though. I don’t think anyone has.

I’m not going to lay out my pride and dignity and loss in a list. It started after our Mom died, though, I can tell you that. And it still hasn’t stopped. Some highlights might include starting the apocalypse and getting nearly everyone around me killed. Those are just highlights, though. The little things tend to hurt more. All the lies. And the faking. And more lies. And more faking… it was tiring, but you can’t just suddenly stop. Some things are secrets. Some things need lies. And some things deserve them.

Through all the mistakes, though, there’s still some sunshine. In seeing my brother - alive, often unwell - and Castiel, the angel that - through lies - has shown me that family doesn’t end with blood. I get to see them. But I used to see Bobby. And Mom. And Dad. And collateral damage, most likely mine, got ‘em knocked off the chessboard. I’m to blame - forever and always - and I like to think everyone around me knows.

Which doesn’t make sense. I don’t want their pity, not really. But I’d like it more if Sam and Castiel knew that the cracks in the universe weren’t their doing, but mine. It doesn’t feel good, to be the epicenter of mistake upon mistake, but some weight is lifted when you know the people you love don’t have that weight. Call it bravery, justice, the ability care - whatever. I have it, and it makes me happy to see Sam and Cas look and act so painless. And that’s what matters, in the epicenter of all things, at the end, when time stops for you. If it’s painless. If their’s a bullet in your brain you might’ve died in vain, but maybe you stopped the bullet from entering someone else.

The point is, not a day goes by that I don’t regret the choices that I’ve made. Every move I’ve made on my personal chessboard has been a mistake, and if not then only a select few have made a good difference. I feel guilt when I wake up, at all the lies I’ve spat at Sam and all the demands and shouting I’ve babbled at Cas. I’d say they’re only human but… I can’t. Not anymore. Not really. Sam was the devil. For real. Cas has been an angel. For real. But Cas has never been an angel for me. And all Sam has been is the devil - causing me trouble, guilt, a foot in my mouth, and blood running on my skin.

\---

I’m almost entirely sure I’ve been a chess piece my entire life. I don’t know what piece - I’d say pawn only I’ve played some important roles before - but I know it’s all I’ve been. Ever since Mom died. Dad just wanted to hunt… everything. And my options whittled down to say, “Yes, sir.”

I complained. And whined. A hell of a lot more than Dean ever had the nerve to. Or maybe even wanted to - I love my brother, I did, and I still do and will, but he was the obedient one. On a certain level. He stood his ground but he was just a soldier. I don’t like to speak of him like that, because he’s not that person anymore. I don’t think he’ll ever be, really, just a soldier.

But that’s not the point. I’ve always been a pawn and he’s always been a knight. He’s there to protect me and I’ve slipped up so many times I cannot believe he hasn’t been captured yet. And I feel…. I feel like I’ve been to Hell and back, but not as much as I’ve deserved. I was skinned alive for this and yet Dean is still here, alive and watching his baby brother. None of it is fair to him. It feels like it won’t ever be.

Every night, when I try and fall asleep, I don’t how I’m supposed to feel. Content? Is that what normal people feel? When they’ve saved a life or done something good during the day? I don’t remember the last time I felt that way. It’s been a few months, maybe a year, maybe two. I know, since I fell asleep with a warm liquid in my heart that stuck my eyelids together and granted me a pleasant dream. And I certainly don’t remember why.

And every night I fall asleep, I regret all the mistakes that I’ve made. And the fact that I’ve caused Dean so much hurt and physical and emotional and mental tolls and I wish that I had made different choices and I kick myself for all the times I walked away and messed everything up so bad I basically forced him to kick me out.

So in the dark, of whatever sweaty, grimy motel room we’re booked in for the night, I sit at the edge of my bed and listen until I can hear Dean breathing. When I know he’s asleep and hopefully content and maybe his eyelids are stuck closed I swing my legs to the end of the bed and sit. I put my face in my hands and I stare up at the ceiling as if it’s the sky.

And I do something that, for someone who has met angels and demons and knows that angels and demons have real effects on the world, is kind of crazy. I put my hands under my chin and pray. Never out loud - Dean’s not a light sleep but talking would wake him up eventually. So I think about all the mistakes I’ve made and I pray to whoever is listening that maybe one day Dean will forgive me.

And I do something that, really, having been to Heaven and Hell and Purgatory, might seem silly but I always mean. Every night. I sit there and pray that when Dean dies, he goes to Heaven. It’s his destiny and I’m so sorry his real life has already been such Hell and I sit there and pray that if Dean is to die that he goes up. Where he belongs.

Nothing ever happens. Nothing has ever happened. No angel pops in to say hello, tell me if they promise to keep my wish safe, or anything or the sort. I sit there each night, hoping to find the wings of an angel in the dark, but find nothing. And after that I need to sleep because my eyes have seen enough hurt for one day. Oblivion is easier than pain.

\---

“We’ll find a hunt tomorrow, but, man, I need some sleep.” Dean dropped his duffel down on the floor with a yawn. “G’night, Sammy.”

The older of the two placed his bag on the floor and nodded, changing from his plaid flannel to a simple t-shirt while Dean walked to the bathroom.

Sam flopped on his bed, grimacing as his feet reached a tad beyond the edge. Height had always been a problem with the elder Winchester. But as Dean left the bedroom, shut of the light, and jumped into bed, it wasn’t his height that nagged Sam. It was the lack of content that willed him to shut his eyes.

So he waited - an hour, maybe more - until he could clearly hear the sounds of his sleeping brother. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Sam sat at the foot of the low twin. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to immerse in the shadows and thoughts of his mind long enough to send out a prayer.

_It’s me. Again. For the hundredth time, most likely. Conveying the same message. Over and over. Not like you fly bastards care about the needs of humans. But… I still want to talk. Because my brother - my brother, Dean, he doesn’t deserve to die. He doesn’t deserve any hate or pain. But I can’t ask for that. It’s too much. Even for you guys. So I ask that… when he does die, whether it be painfully or abruptly or knowingly or terribly, when he does die, Dean goes to Heaven. He deserves it. I don’t. He does. It needs to be clear. He gets Heaven. I get what my sins get me to._

And thus Sam opened his eyes and sank back into his bed. Another prayer gone by lacking an answer. There was no contentedness, only fear and sorrow. So Sam shut his eyes and let oblivion take over in the form of sleep.

It was only a few hours later, when both of the Winchester brothers were completely asleep, did the world make a sound.

At the foot of Sam Winchester’s bed, so close to his feet yet not quite touching them, came the ruffle of an angels wings.

**Author's Note:**

> If you ship Sabriel, I'll leave you to your assumptions about whose wings those were. And if you ship Destiel, then I'll leave you to your assumptions. Hallas, I'll leave you to your assumptions, as they have a tendency to be right. And, uh, awesome.


End file.
